


Home

by red0aktree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 times story, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red0aktree/pseuds/red0aktree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: "Five Times John Confused the Word "Home" With "Sherlock"</p><p>Post-Reichenbach fic, mild angst and a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the boring title, and the fact that this story hasn't been beta-ed. All mistakes are my own.
> 
> I do not own Sherlock, all rights go to their respective owners.

**One.**

John's new flat was small, one bedroom, one bath. It had grey carpet and small windows and there were boxes piled in the living room and atop the tan kitchen counters. He hadn't yet decided if he wanted to put the plates in the center cupboard, or perhaps the one near the sink. As John stood in the kitchen with his hands on his hips and a frown on his brow, John subconsciously plotted out where Sherlock's tupperware full of scalpels would go before remembering that there wouldn't be anymore scalpels. Or thumbs. Or bloody heads in the bloody fridge.

John should have been happier about this thought than he was.

"That's the last of it, mate." Stamford said with a grin as he lowered himself onto John's dusty couch. Stamford had assisted John in transferring the final few things from 221b, both Lestrade and Anderson had helped with the majority of the moving yesterday. John shifted to lean against the countertop, facing Stamford.

"I really appreciate it Mike." John began with a nod of his head.

"Don't mention it, Watson." Stamford laughed with a wave of his hand. "Home sweet home, eh?" Though Stamford's words lighthearted they filled John's thoughts with glimpses of pale skin and bright eyes. Suddenly his heart felt heavy as he barked out a sad laugh and spoke, his words cold. "Hardly."

Stamford's laughter caught in his throat and he averted his gaze to his hands. John closed his eyes for a second longer than a standard blink before grinning at his friend. "Would you like a beer?" He offered kindly, and neither spoke of the understanding that had passed between them.

* * *

  
  
**Two.**

"Thanks for meeting me John." Molly said with a wide smile after the two had exchanged a quick hug and warm greetings. They stood in a small restaurant near St. Bart's, and searched for a quiet table where they could reconnect over lunch on a dull Friday afternoon. John and Molly hadn't spoken much since the funeral. They exchanged emails and text messages for a brief period directly after Sherlock's fall, but that hadn't lasted long. It was Molly who had invited John out today.

"I was, uh, worried about you?" Molly's words came out as a question.

"I'm fine. Really. What about you?" John inquired as he found a table and began to examine the menu.

"I'm good. Yeah. I'm good." When John glanced up he could see Molly's lie upon her lips. She missed him too.

"That's good." John chose to ignore Molly's lie just as she had his. They mutually respected the other's’ choice not to speak of the man with long fingers and sharp words. "How's work?" John asked politely and the conversation continued in a gentle familiarity.

John had missed Molly more than he thought he would. She still blinked more often than the she should and stuttered over her words a bit too much and John was reminded of a time not long ago. A time he didn't like to think about, yet couldn't stay away from. As they paid for their meal John came to the realization that she would be leaving soon. He would be alone again. He had become accustomed to the loneliness, but as he felt it returning, he fretted.

"Are you, uh, are -- Do you have plans tonight?" John asked as he handed the waiter his credit card. Molly blushed a bit.

"Yeah, actually, I have a date." A smile hinted at her lips.

"Oh!" John couldn't help but smile, too. "It's not a madman this time is it?" John teased. He wasn't sure if it was Moriarty or Sherlock that he was referring to. Molly laughed.

"Not so far." The pair grinned at one another. "What about you? Do you have plans for after work?" John shook his head at Molly's question.

"I'll just head home, I think."

Something about John's words caused the smile to slide from Molly's thin lips. John wasn't sure what it was that caused the reaction, but Molly wasn't the only one affected. John felt empty and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the fact that Molly was moving on and John wasn't, or maybe it was the images that filled his head of quests through London's streets and late night meals at Angelo's. Molly nodded and chewed her bottom lip. The waiter returned with their receipts and the two rose from the table and moved toward the doors.

"You know, I took a psychology class in, um, in school." Molly began and John raised an eyebrow at her unprompted statement. "They, uh, they told us that certain words can be like triggers to people, and good psychologists can identify those words." The pair stopped walking. Facing each other on the sidewalk where they would soon be forced to part ways John met Molly's eyes. She looks raw. Honest.

"And?" John urged when she didn't continue.

"And um... When you say home," Molly hesitated and looked to her feet. "When you talk about home I know that you think about him." The two locked eyes for a tense moment as John thought about Molly's words. After a second he offered a short nod and Molly leaned forward to kiss his cheek.

"Bye John." Molly said kindly. "We should do this again soon." As Molly turned to walk away John wanted to call after her. To say come back or have a nice date tonight or even I miss him more than you'll ever know. Instead he stayed silent.  
  
When he returned to his flat he craved, not for the first time, the sound of violin.

* * *

 

**Three**

“All I’m saying--”

“Mum.”

“--you never--”

“Mother.”

“--even call us--”

“Mum!” John all but shouted into the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose as his mother stopped ranting for a moment. “Stop, okay? Just stop for one bloody second. I’ve been busy.” 

“Busy?” John rolled his eyes and paced his living room floor in agitation. “Busy for six bloody months, John? You could at least call!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” John’s apology seemed to shock his mother, as she became quiet for a moment. “It’s just been rough.” His mother made a sympathetic noise.

“I know John. I’m sure it has. But I’m your mother. I’m supposed to... help you with these things.” John let out an unattractive snort and dropped onto his couch heavily. “You could at least come home.”

John’s eyes traced the shape of the chair that use to belong in 221b and the boxes that sat unpacked beside it. All of them had one thing in common: the word “Sherlock’s” slapped across the side in sloppy marker. John thought of the contents of those boxes, lab equipment and case files. Clothes and penknives. Memories. Memories John couldn’t bear to throw away.

“Mum. You have no idea how badly I wish I could.”

* * *

 

 

**Four**

John raised a glass to make a toast at the Scotland Yard Christmas party, one which Lestrade had invited him to. He intended to thank them all for helping him through the past year, maybe even congratulate Donovan on her engagement, just so she knew there wasn’t any hard feelings between them. He intended to do all this, but instead he tripped over his own feet as he stood. He hadn’t been this drunk in ages.

Lestrade caught his elbow with a chuckle as the rest of the room ignored him. “Whoa there, Watson.” John leaned against Lestrade as the room spun. “Maybe we should get you home, huh?” Lestrade was still laughing as a frown formed on John’s face.

Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the stress from holding in all his emotions or perhaps a mix of both. Regardless, John stopped being able to handle it. Tears pricked at his eyes and he straightened up, glaring at the Detective Inspector.

“I can’t.” He slurred. Lestrade stopped smiling, instead became worried, eyebrows knitting together.

“You can’t what? Go home?” He asked, eyes searching John’s face, hand outstretched to steady John’s shoulder. John nodded furiously, his hand tightening around his glass.

“Home,” John growled, hands clenching into tight fists, “ _Home_ jumped off a building. My _home_ has a fucking headstone.” Lestrade was speechless. Surrounded by glittering Christmas lights and laughing co-workers, Greg Lestrade began to truly understand just how much the man before him missed Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

  
  
**Five.**

“You know, I think we should move back to Baker street.” Sherlock’s words broke through the lazy silence of John’s bedroom. It had been two days since Sherlock’s return and still John wasn’t use to the silky smooth voice filling the empty spaces in his life. The two lay intertwined in the early morning sun, relishing in the ability to touch one another.

“Hmmm?” John hummed without opening his eyes. Sherlock watched John as he rested, studying the older man quietly. It had broken his heart to stay away for so long.

“Baker street. Let’s move back. This place just doesn’t--” Sherlock was cut off by John abruptly opening his eyes and fixing him with a dark glare.

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘feel like home’ I will kill you. For real this time.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he swallowed his words. “I was going to say ‘have enough counter space’.” They both accepted Sherlock's lie as the dark haired man pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and pulled him close.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone actually reads my stories, but if you do, and are interested in helping me beta in the near future, please message me! Thanks!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1729271) by [ideduceyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideduceyou/pseuds/ideduceyou)




End file.
